Robert Harris - Will Shakespeare and the Pirate’s Fire

I had thought to alter a word here and there, but Master Beeston took me strongly to task and warned me against such interference. “A word is a dangerous thing, Master Shaxpere,” says he. “Misplace one word of the Bible and all Religion is overthrown; speake one hasty word to the wrathful mob and bloody rebellion is loosed.” I think he protests too much. I only wanted some of the lines to sound better.

We have travelled far these past many weekes, to townes whose names I had not even heard. We set up our show in halls, courtyards and innes, and when there is no other sort of stage, the backs of the two wagons serve as such. I have played some small parts, though only twice more have I suffered to be a girl. The parts of queens and suchlike noble ladies are played by Tom Craddock, while Master Beeston’s son Kit acts the milkmaids and serving girls. They have forced upon me some lessons in walking with a woman’s gait, though it is a skill I do not prize.

I have been learning other parts of the Player’s Art also. Master Henry Beeston has been teaching me to talk very loudly, which he calls Declamation. Kemp has offered me lessons in dancing, but I fear I might injure myself if I accept his offer, so boisterous is his jigging.

Ralph has given me lessons in how to make a fine showe of a sword fight on the stage. One of our most popular showes is The Tale of Robin Hood, and how the crowd do cheere when Robin attacks the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham with a cry of “Have at you and God’s curse on him that flees!”

Master Beeston, I have noted, takes every opportunity to visit shoppes and markets where he can purchase old bookes, and yet most of them he never takes time to read. I questioned him on this and he told me he is buying them for collectors all over the country who paye him well for this service.

He sayes that when King Henry the VIIIth abolished the monasteries, the crown and the nobles took the monks’ lands and belongings. Their libraries were sold off and bookes they had collected for centuries were scattered far and wide. These are most specially valuable.

There is one among them so strangely writ, to my eyes it might as well be Greek. When I asked Master Beeston about it he laughed most heartily and said, “That is no ordinary booke there, Master Shaxpere. That is bought for a Wyzard, Dr John Dee by name.” He intends to deliver this booke and take payment for it on our way to London. I don’t know if I want to meet a Wyzard or no, except that it would make a tale very worth the telling.

I hope you are all well in Stratford, that father’s businesse prospers, and that Gilbert, Joan and Richard are all in good health. I trust God to keep you safe and I pray He may put an end to my troubles with Squire Lucy. I Will be back with you soone, I hope, for I have a Will to be so.

Your wandering and affectionate Sonne,

Will Shaxpere.

A violent storm came roaring across the land, cuffing the trees this way and that like a gigantic bully. Bulging, black clouds wrestled each other across a sky lashed by whips of lightning, while the rain beat down in torrents, pounding the earth into mud. It was so dark it was as if someone had flung a shroud over the whole country, and Will had to peer intently to make out the words on the page before him. He was huddled up at the back of the wagon beside Kit Beeston, the book his mother had given him propped up on his knees. Henry Beeston sat opposite, silently mouthing a dramatic speech from one of his plays.

The wagon moved in fits and jerks as the horses dragged their hooves through the mud. Everyone cringed when a ferocious gust of wind threatened to rip the cover off the wagon and a flurry of rain rattled along the sides.

“It’s lucky for us these things are built sturdy,” Kit commented nervously. When there was no response he said, “Still reading that book, Will?”

Will nodded. “This bit is about Jupiter, the king of the gods, sending a flood to drown the world.”

Kit made a pained face. “Sounds a bit close to home, that.” He peeped over Will’s shoulder, but couldn’t make out a word in the gloom. “Let’s hear it then,” he urged.

Will picked out a passage he thought would impress and started to read:

“As soon as he between his hands the hanging clouds had crushed ,

With rattling noise adown from heaven the rain full sadly gushed.

The floods at random where they list, through all the fields did stray,

Men, beasts, trees, and with their gods were Churches washed away ”

As if to accompany Will’s reading, a clap of thunder boomed out like the roll of a monstrous drum.

“Do you hear that, Dad?” Kit asked his father.

Beeston looked up with a start, as though jolted out of a sound sleep. “What? Oh yes, very fine, very fine. A most appropriate verse, Master Shakespeare. Though you might infuse your tone with a greater measure of drama.”

The wagon shook under another peal of thunder.

“Is this some of Dr John Dee’s magic, do you think?” asked Will. “You said we were getting close to his house at Mortlake.”

Beeston laughed. “When I said he was a wizard, Will, I only meant that some ignorant folk have called him that on account of his arcane studies. In truth he is a scholar, a philosopher, and – luckily for me – an insatiable collector of rare books.”

“He’s court astrologer to Queen Elizabeth,” Kit told Will, “and she thinks he can read the future.”

“Yes, he set the date for the queen’s coronation after consulting the stars to divine the most favourable day,” his father agreed. “That’s a far cry from magic.”

“But I’ve heard you say he talks to spirits,” Kit insisted. “Maybe he’s upset some of them and caused this foul weather.”

“Hush, Kit,” said Beeston. “The man’s eccentricities should not be misinterpreted as sorcery, especially since we plan to spend the night at his house. We can lay this storm at Nature’s feet and leave it there.”

The wagon jolted to a halt then lurched to one side so sharply it almost tossed Will from his seat. He clapped the book shut and stuffed it away in his pack. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“If this were a ship, I’d say we were sinking,” said Kit.

Henry Beeston pulled a wide brimmed hat out of one of the costume boxes and planted it on his head. He climbed out of the back of the wagon with Will following curiously. Ralph had dismounted from the driver’s seat to calm the horses, which were stamping and snorting. Will could see that the wheels on the left side had sunk into a soft patch of mud and the animals hadn’t the strength to pull them loose.

Beeston surveyed their predicament from under the broad brim of his hat. He twisted some strands of beard around his finger and was about to speak when a cry of alarm interrupted him. Will looked round to see the second wagon shudder to a stop as it also tipped over to one side.

“Matthew,” Beeston addressed the driver testily, “could you not see the bind we’re in?”

Matthew spat at the muddy ground. “Who can see anything in this murk?”

Ralph bent down for a closer look at the problem. “We’ll have to pull out some boards and use them to prop up the wheels before we can pull free,” he said. “It’s going to take a while.”

“It’s a fix,” Beeston declared grimly. “The very devil of a fix.” He peered into the darkness like a mariner trying to spot land. “We can’t be more than a mile or two from Dee’s place at Mortlake House. Tell you what, Ralph, you get the wagons unstuck while I go on ahead to arrange our quarters.”

He strode back to the rear of the wagon and gathered the players about him. He struck a regal pose and issued his instructions like a king arraying his army. “Kit, you oversee the operation, and make sure the rain doesn’t get into the baggage. Master Shakespeare, fetch down that chest of books and follow me.”